


If I were you

by TelWoman



Category: Eroica Yori Ai o Komete | From Eroica with Love
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, Mistaken Identity, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:40:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22705594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TelWoman/pseuds/TelWoman
Summary: It’s been said that if we could see ourselves as other people see us, it would be good for us. How would it be if we could see others as they see themselves?
Relationships: Klaus von dem Eberbach & Dorian Red Gloria
Comments: 13
Kudos: 17
Collections: From Eroica With Love - Groups Challenges





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SLq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SLq/gifts), [ashbird (sunwreck)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwreck/gifts), [AnonymousFemme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousFemme/gifts).



> Vaguely linked to the eroicaml.groups.io Valentine's Day Challenge 2020.  
> Part one is for Ashbird and SLq, fellow Eroicafen.

  
  


Klaus cracked open his eyes, trying to ignore the pain pounding inside his skull. 

Creakily, he sat up. His hands were tied behind his back, making movement awkward, but by shuffling and shifting, he levered himself upright with his back braced against the wall. 

The room smelled musty. Dust floated in the thin shafts of sunlight slanting down from a high window. A dust-covered table and two plain wooden chairs were the only furniture. A jumble of anonymous wooden boxes stood stacked against one wall, and leaning against them, there were two paintings in heavy, ornate frames.

He blinked hard, willing the fog to clear from his mind. Where was he? How did he get here? Who had tied him up like this? The same people who had beaten him up, no doubt – his ribs and shoulders throbbed, but as far as he could tell, nothing seemed to be broken.

Muzzily, he stared at the paintings. Something stirred behind the fog, some almost-recognition. He should know about the paintings, he thought. The word ‘foppish’ surfaced, but without connotation or context. Had he heard someone use the word with regard to the paintings? He couldn’t recall.

_Think, think! Where is this place? Why am I here? Why am I tied up like this? What should I remember about those paintings? And… who the fuck am I, anyway?_

For, uneasily, Klaus realised he had no idea who he was.

Through the closed door, he heard the sound of distant footsteps. Several people; men, judging from the heavy footfalls. There were voices, but he couldn’t make them out. The sounds grew louder, closer – and then there was the scraping of chairs being moved as the men settled in the next room. 

Were they the ones who’d put him here? Why had they put him here? Why was he a prisoner? Klaus strained to listen. At first, the muffled voices made no sense, and then he recognised some words. Russian! He frowned. 

_I can understand them. Am I Russian?_

No, that didn’t seem right. After all, he wasn’t thinking in Russian. His thoughts were coming in a mixture of German and English. 

_So am I German? Am I British?_

A gust of laughter came through the walls, followed by a voice that sounded familiar.

_Whose? Do I know that man?_

He focused hard, and heard the words, “—a haul worthy of Eroica, without question—”

_Eroica? Who, or what—?_

Klaus turned his gaze back to the paintings, and recognition struck with blinding force.

_The art thief, Eroica. I’m Eroica! I stole those paintings!_

Memories rose up in his still-fogged brain. Eroica, the master thief. Eroica, whose thefts were works of art in themselves. Eroica, who always got whatever he wanted. Yes, that must be it: he was a thief. He’d stolen those artworks. And whoever those men in the next room were – he was their captive. 

_So who are they?_

The shafts of sunlight had shifted and become much weaker the next time Klaus drifted back into consciousness. His head still ached, but less so; his bruises had settled into a dull, nagging burn. He shifted around, flexing his limbs as best he could. He felt thirsty, and his stomach twisted with hunger. 

In the adjoining room, a dull buzz of conversation told him the men were still there. Were they planning to bring him food and drink, or were they just going to leave him be?

In the dimmer light, it was impossible to see the images on the two paintings. They were just dark rectangles in gilt frames. 

Klaus tried to remember where he’d stolen them from. A museum? A private house? Some public building? Nothing was beyond Eroica’s capabilities. Eroica was the Prince of Thieves. 

Except, now he’d been caught, and he was being held by these men. Interpol? Surely Interpol wouldn’t hold him like this, tied up in a dusty store-room. 

They spoke Russian. Were they Bratva? Were they thieves stealing from thieves? But what did they want with him? Why tie him up and keep him here? Klaus strained to remember. Had he offended someone in some way? Trespassed on someone’s territory?

Through the wall came a wave of laughter, and the tones of ribald mockery. One voice rose above the laughter, and he heard clearly, “What would Iron Klaus say to that?” 

_Iron Klaus._

He turned the name over, probing for significance. Yes, the name was familiar. And then it hit him.

He was in love with Iron Klaus. He, Eroica, loved a German spy called Iron Klaus, who did not return his affection. He felt a small pang of sorrow. He couldn’t remember what his beloved looked like; he couldn’t remember the sound of his voice. All he knew was that the love Eroica had for Iron Klaus was pure and strong, forged in fire, undying – and that love would keep him alive through whatever ordeal the Russian thugs in the next room had planned for him.

Darkness fell. Klaus remained conscious. His muscles ached. His bruises throbbed. His thirst and hunger tormented him. 

The men had left the adjoining room some time ago, tramping away in a group. For what seemed like many hours, he’d heard nothing but the creaking sounds made by the building itself, and the occasional scuttling of a rat in the ceiling.

The paintings in their gilt frames were just blocks of darker shadow, leaning against the solid black jumble of boxes. 

What was in those boxes? Did they contain more artworks? Eroica was famous for the daring of his heists. Stealing one carefully selected object or the entire contents of a gallery – nothing was beyond the skills of the greatest art thief the world had ever known. Klaus remembered that; but he could not remember where he had stolen these paintings. 

Footsteps sounded in the distance, growing louder as they approached the room. Outside the door, the footsteps came to a halt. There was a rattle of keys, the door opened, and a light was switched on. Three men came into the room.

Klaus looked from one to the other. He had no idea who they were. No idea if he’d ever seen them before. 

One of the men approached, pulled his arms up roughly, and cut the ropes tying his wrists. Another placed a plate of food and a bottle of water on the floor within reach, and the two stepped back quickly.

The third man spoke, in Russian. “We are all armed, and there are three of us. Do not try to escape. You will end up dead.”

Klaus peered at the man. This was the half-familiar voice he had heard through the wall. Was the man’s face familiar? Perhaps. Perhaps not. He couldn’t be sure. But the man was Russian; why would he know a Russian?

“These fine paintings!” the man said. “Eroica has done us a favour, stealing these. It saves us the trouble.”

“I didn’t do it for you, shithead,” Klaus snarled. “I steal to surround myself with beauty.”

A momentary look of puzzlement passed across the Russian’s face. Klaus saw him glance at the henchmen standing on either side of him before he took a step forward.

“So— Eroica does not like to share?”

“Damn right I don’t!” Klaus retorted. “I don’t risk my neck so scum like you can scavenge the fruits of my labour!”

This time, there was a flash of amusement, which the Russian wiped off his face in an instant and replaced with a threatening scowl.

“You should watch your mouth, _Eroica._ You could get into trouble if you offend us. Grisha— the handcuffs.”

One of the thugs stepped forward and cuffed Klaus’s hands in front of him. 

“Enjoy your dinner, Eroica,” said the one who was doing all the talking. “We will be in the next room. You can’t escape. Don’t waste your time trying, _Prince of Thieves!”_

The door closed behind them, and Klaus reached for the water bottle. 

The three Russians went into the next room and closed the door. Sitting down at the head of the table, the leader allowed his amusement to overflow into a quiet chuckle.

“What is it, Comrade Bear Cub?” the one called Grisha asked. “What is amusing?”

“Sit down, Grisha. Borya, put the coffee on. This is a rich joke indeed, my friends.” 

The other two looked at each other. Mischa the Bear Cub was not known for his sense of humour. 

Careful not to be heard through the thin walls, Mischa kept his voice low. “We know, Comrades, that the man in the next room is Iron Klaus von dem Eberbach. It seems, though, that Iron Klaus no longer knows that. It seems that Iron Klaus has suffered some derangement or amnesia on account of the beating you gave him, Comrades – and he now believes that he is the thief Eroica.” Mischa’s eyes crinkled with dark merriment. “This is a good joke, if it is true. Of course,” – and his expression snapped back into its customary poker-face – “Iron Klaus could be feigning his condition. But if he really does think he is Eroica, it presents some interesting possibilities.”

Borya placed three mugs of coffee on the table and sat down. “I do not know much about this thief, Comrade. Can you give me more information?”

“The thief Eroica has a long history with Iron Klaus. He has interfered in my work many times, on Iron Klaus’s behalf. He is an aristocrat, and a homosexual— and it is widely believed that Eroica and Iron Klaus are lovers.”

Grisha nearly choked on his coffee. “Lovers? Do you mean— that Iron Klaus is a faggot?”

“He doesn’t act like one,” Borya growled. “He fought back hard enough! He nearly broke my arm! He is a hard man to subdue. A fighter.”

Comrade Mischa smirked with amusement. “He is a tough man. A difficult enemy. Who can say what passes between him and Eroica – but the stories have circulated for years. And the thief Eroica is said to have proclaimed his love for Iron Klaus in public. What conclusions are to be drawn, Comrades?”

Grisha and Borya looked at each other, confounded.

“Now, Comrades,” Mischa continued, “tomorrow, when the helicopter arrives to take us back to Moscow with the art works, we have to decide what we will do with Iron Klaus. It will generate too many inconveniences if we kill him; and taking him with us is out of the question as we will have no room for him. Now, if Iron Klaus believes he is Eroica—”

Comrade Mischa’s gleeful grin, so out of character, shocked the other two Russians as they listened to him outlining his plan.

Officers at the Interpol Bureau acted quickly when they received the anonymous tip-off.

The message was vague; a call from a man with a Russian accent, with the information that the art thief Eroica could be found at a certain location. The directions were not clearly described, but the name of a town had been given, so a task force was sent to investigate.

It took them three days, but they eventually found the isolated farmhouse. The place looked uninhabited. There were no lights showing, and no smoke was issuing from the chimneys, although it was a dull, cold day. They approached the house with caution. 

Inside, Klaus lay in a semi-stupor. The Russians had left him locked in, and handcuffed. They had taken all the boxes and loaded them onto a waiting helicopter, leaving behind the two unboxed paintings— “A little gift to help your rescuers know who you are!” All the furniture had been taken out, and they’d disconnected the electricity. They’d nailed a panel of wood over the window and removed anything from the room that could be used to prise the boards off. They’d left a supply of food, and several buckets full of water (the handles removed). Klaus was imprisoned in a bare, cold, dark room with just enough food and water to survive and, with the window blocked up, no way of telling whether it was night or day.

When he heard the sound of people moving around outside the building, Klaus stirred. He bit back the urge to shout out to them— he had no idea whether they were friend or foe.

“Police! Open the door!”

He sat up, tense. I _might_ be the police. Or it might not. He waited. 

Next, there was a loud banging on the door, the sound of splintering wood, and more loud shouts as heavy-booted individuals ran into the house.

Tense, silent, Klaus waited, listening to the sounds get closer and closer. The door burst open, and an officer wearing body armour and carrying an automatic weapon stood framed in the doorway. 

Slowly, Klaus raised himself to his knees, and held his manacled hands up in front of him. 

Someone produced a torch and shone a strong light around the room. Klaus blinked in the unaccustomed glare. He was dragged to his feet and propelled out into the light.

“We had a report that we would find the art thief Eroica here. Are you the man known by that name?” The man spoke in English.

Klaus raised his head high and said nothing. 

“I ask again: are you the man known as Eroica?”

Another officer now came out of the house, carrying the two paintings the Russians had left behind. The little gift, to help his ‘rescuers’ to identify him.

The first officer signalled to his colleagues. “Put him in the van. Bring those paintings, too.”

In the cells, Klaus maintained his silence. He sat staring into space, saying nothing. He ate when the food arrived; he washed and tended to his bodily needs when the time came round on the prison schedule. The days went by.

One morning, he heard two officers walking past the door of his cell, arguing. 

“—but Eroica’s described as having blond hair and blue eyes.”

“So he wears a wig. Or he’s dyed his hair and straightened it.”

“You can’t change eye colour!”

“You can wear coloured contacts!”

Klaus sighed. Eroica, the greatest art thief who ever lived, finally arrested after evading the police for so many years. They’d only managed it because he’d been captured by those Russians. He still didn’t know who _they_ were, or which side of the law they were on. They’d taken the large haul of artworks with them – the artworks he’d stolen – and left him there to be found by Interpol. 

He was sure that being Eroica, he’d have an excellent team of lawyers at his disposal. The only problem was, he couldn’t remember who they were, or how to get in touch with them. 

And his ability to remain silent was wearing thin.

Then, the officers were walking past again, going back in the opposite direction. They’d left off arguing, and this time he heard one say, “—magazine with some really great photos of bears in Alaska.”

_Alaska._

Something stirred in Klaus’s brain. Alaska should mean something. Had he been to Alaska? You wouldn’t think so – the place wasn’t exactly known for its art collections. But—

_An art collection. In Alaska._

A series of vivid impressions flashed through Klaus’s mind. A small cabin in the Alaskan wilderness. Wolves howling at the door. And the Russian! The one who’d seemed familiar! He was there. 

And then, a clear memory of a tall handsome man with long blond hair threatening the Russian with a gun.

Who was he? Was he—? Was the blond man Iron Klaus? The spy he was in love with? Warmth flooded through Klaus’s heart. Of course. Who else could it be? The love of his life would naturally be a beautiful man; beautiful and brave and fearless. 

_But—_

Another vivid flash of memory. A dark night. Cold and stormy. He was standing on the shore of the Bering Sea, with his love beside him. 

_“I can tell you right now, things are going to get ugly,”_ he heard his own voice saying. _“It’s no longer something a civilian should be involved in.”_

And the handsome blond man replied, _“I merely want the art collection back. So what if my adversary is the KGB?”_

Klaus sat up, his eyes wide. 

_I’m not Eroica! The blond man is Eroica! I’m Major Klaus von dem Eberbach!_

He leapt to his feet, strode across the cell, and began pounding on the door until one of the officers came and jerked the door open. Before the man could speak, Klaus bellowed at him: “I demand to see the commanding officer.”

Klaus could be very persuasive when he needed to be, and after a half-hour’s initial resistance, the Prison Governor made a phone call to NATO’s Bonn office, where he was put through to the Chief.

“Von dem Eberbach? Missing in action. Over a week now. Why? D’you have information on where we might find him?” 

The Governor said, “Is he a well-built man, tall, about one metre ninety? Dark hair, green eyes? Loud voice?”

“That sounds like him,” said the Chief. “Has he been seen?”

“A man of that description is here, in my office.” The Governor stared at Klaus for a few moments, then said, “You’d better send a representative who can sort this out. Interpol is involved. I’ll get them to do the same, and you can work it out between you.”

Klaus was taken back to his cell, but without the rough handling this time, and after five minutes an officer brought in a pot of hot coffee and a plateful of fresh bread rolls. After that, the day passed much like the previous days, except that now, Klaus knew who he was, and he had a firm expectation that this mess was going to be sorted out.

Back in Bonn, there was the usual round of debriefing and medical check-ups. 

“There doesn’t seem to have been any significant physical damage, and the bruising and cuts are all healing up well.” The doctor wrote some notes on the paper in front of him. “You mentioned temporary amnesia. Tell me more about that. How long did it last?”

Klaus didn’t mind this doctor, who had served with the armed forces and had worked in front-line field hospitals in combat zones, so he didn’t try to hide anything. In response to the doctor’s careful questioning, Klaus unfolded the whole sorry tale: not only had he forgotten who he was, but he then drew some wrong conclusions and became convinced that he was someone else. Someone who had been involved in the first stages of the mission, and was well known to him. 

“It’s not entirely unknown,” the doctor said. “Our sense of self is constructed from our memories. Who you are is the total sum of all you’ve experienced. You know who you are because you remember all that. The physical trauma you experienced at the hands of those KGB operatives caused a temporary disturbance that made you forget your memories – so you forgot yourself. It’s natural that you’d try to remember your identity, particularly in the situation you were in, and not entirely unknown to come up with the wrong answer, if there were signals that were pointing you down the wrong path. What you’ve described seems like a classic illustration. And, you say that when you received some further signals, later on when you were in custody, you recognised you’d been mistaken and recalled your true identity. It seems clear that sound functioning was restoring itself, little by little.”

“That sums up what happened,” Klaus said. “The odd thing, though, was that when I believed I was the other man, I saw things as he would have seen them. The way he would have thought about them. Even though I would have felt quite differently if I was thinking as myself.” Klaus suspected he might not be explaining this very clearly, but he was edging into dangerous territory.

The doctor shrugged. “If you know this other man very well, and understand what his point of view is, it wouldn’t be surprising for you to adopt his point of view – or what you understand to be his point of view – for the time you adopted his identity.”

Klaus nodded. There wasn’t anything else he cared to say on the matter. Because, since he’d regained knowledge of who he was, he still hadn’t forgotten the feeling that went with the thoughts he’d had when he thought he was Eroica. Such as thinking, as Eroica, that his love for Iron Klaus was a thing of strength and purity – not the perversion that he, Klaus, had declared it to be, so often and so loudly. Klaus had not forgotten that: had not forgotten what that thought _felt_ like.

There was no way he was going to mention that to the doctor. 

“I’m writing a recommendation that you be given two weeks’ leave,” the doctor was saying, “for rest and recuperation. No— don’t argue. You need to get back to full functioning capacity, and time off is what you need. Take a break. Get away from Bonn. Go and stay with a friend. Whatever you like – but _rest._ That’s an order.”

Klaus closed up his city flat and went back to Schloss Eberbach. If he was supposed to rest, the old place with its extensive gardens and the woods and meadows of the family estate would present more opportunities to do so.

He was thankful that the amnesiac episode had resolved itself in a short time. Klaus liked to be in control, and the panic he’d experienced when he’d first realised that he didn’t know who he was had rattled him. Panic was an unfamiliar and unwelcome emotion. 

Even when he’d thought he knew who he was, there was so much else he didn’t know and didn’t remember. He’d felt confused. Rudderless. Uncertainty was another emotion Klaus didn’t like.

The memory of seeing things from Eroica’s point of view stayed with him still. Should he have asked the doctor about it? No, Klaus definitely didn’t want that in his medical notes. 

For the hundredth time, he turned the recollections over in his mind. Was that how Eroica thought, in reality? The feelings of loyalty and dedication that Klaus, in his confused state, had experienced? Did Eroica really see his regard for Klaus in such noble terms? And if he did, was there a possibility that if Klaus stopped reacting to him with violence and disdain, that Eroica might become less of a nuisance? 

There was only one way to find out.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part one: Klaus's recollections of Alaska refer, of course, to Aoike's story ‘The Alaskan Front’.  
> The lines “I can tell you right now, things are going to get ugly. It’s no longer something a civilian should be involved in,” and “I merely want the art collection back. So what if my adversary is the KGB?” are borrowed directly from the CMX translations.


	2. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two is for AnonymousFemme, who asked what happened next.

  
  
  


The first morning that Klaus was on leave, he woke up at the usual time. He went for a run, showered, and dressed – in old jeans and a faded tee shirt instead of the usual a suit and tie. After breakfast, he wandered out to the garages, and spent the morning working on the cars. By lunch time, his Benz and the old Porsche 356 his uncle had left him had both had their oil changed, their engines tuned, and their bodywork washed thoroughly. After a light lunch, Klaus polished both cars to a mirror-like gloss. Then he wandered back into the house and tried to bury himself in reading a book of military history written in the eighteenth century by a Prussian general.

Military strategy interested him very much, but even so, he couldn’t concentrate. His mind drifted back to his last mission, to breaking into that empty house and removing all those paintings. Klaus prided himself on his own strategic skills, but that damned English thief was a consummate strategist. In fact, Klaus had recognised long ago that when it came to strategy, Eroica was his equal. Not that he would ever tell him so. 

Try as he might to keep his mind on his book, Klaus found himself thinking about other instances where the thief had shown his skill. His mastery over security systems. His ability to break into places leaving no trace. His rare talent for disguise. His gift for improvisation.

 _Gott verdammt!_ Klaus looked at his watch. It was nearly time to get ready for dinner. Instead of making progress with his reading, he’d wasted half the afternoon thinking about that bloody nuisance!

On the second day, he went for a longer run, and after showering, dressing, and breakfasting, he armed himself with a set of long-handled pruning shears and set to work amongst the shrubs and trees in the garden. He felt satisfied with the progress he was making, until the gardener could no longer contain his angst, and begged him to stop because it wasn’t yet the right season to prune. 

Klaus spent the afternoon struggling with the Prussian general and his campaigns, then gave up, opened a bottle of beer, and turned on the television. One of the channels was showing replays of classic football matches, so he settled in to watch a replay of Germany vs. England in the 1966 World Cup. He’d seen the match before. The teams were equally skilled, and the scores were level until extra time. It must have been because he’d seen it before, and because he knew the outcome – or so Klaus told himself – that his attention kept fading. 

He thought about England. He’d only ever gone to England for work, never pleasure. Klaus knew most English people he’d dealt with thought he was blunt – rude, even. For his part, he’d always thought the English wasted time on empty verbiage. Never quite saying what they meant. Never quite calling things for what they were. Always talking about the weather. Weather was weather; you couldn’t do anything about it, so why go on about it? 

Eroica, on the other hand, could be very direct. True, he used a lot of innuendo – but his meaning was never obscure. And there were times when the man had been unnecessarily frank. Embarrassingly frank. That time in Rome. He’d punched Eroica that day, for saying he loved him in front of all those people. And yet, the man wasn’t dissuaded. 

Reluctantly, Klaus thought about the days he’d spent believing that _he_ was Eroica. He remembered the thoughts he’d had about the man Eroica loved, the man whose face and voice he couldn’t recall. Thoughts that were sincere and honourable – not lascivious, depraved and self-serving. Those thoughts must have come from Klaus’s own mind, so what did it mean? That he would _like_ Eroica to think like that? Or that he believed Eroica really _did_ think like that, under all the lewd behavior and foppery? 

He dragged his attention back to the TV screen just as the controversial final goal was kicked and the English team won. Klaus swore, and turned off the set.

On the third day, he went back to the garages, and wheeled his powerful BMW motorcycle into the middle of the floor. Klaus enjoyed motorcycling. The raw power, the feeling of connection with both the machine and the elements, the freedom of the road, the sensation of speed. He sighed. He got so little time to ride. 

The motorcycle got the same thorough treatment the cars had received. By lunch time, the bike had been serviced, tuned up, cleaned, and polished. Perhaps, in the afternoon, he would take it for a run. Or – why not make it an overnight trip? All he’d need was a toothbrush and a change of underwear. He could ride until the light went, find somewhere to stay for the night, then come back the next day by a different route. 

_Yes, why not?_

As he strolled across the cobbled yard to the side door of the Schloss, Klaus’s attention was caught by a flash of red through the trees beside the long drive. He stopped. Watched. 

A red Lamborghini emerged from behind the row of linden trees lining the drive.

_That’s fucking Eroica! What the hell is he doing here?_

Klaus strode into the house, heading for the entrance hall. He shooed Herr Hinkel out of the way and opened the front door himself.

“What are you doing here, Limey?”

His visitor shook abundant blond curls back over his shoulders and adjusted his peach-coloured chiffon scarf. “I came to see you, Major. I was worried about you.”

“Worried?” Klaus turned and walked away from the front door. His visitor followed, since he hadn’t been specifically told not to. Briefly, Klaus glanced back over his shoulder, and kept walking. “Why would you be worried?” He pushed open a door. “Come in. Sit down.” 

Eroica floated in with studied grace, looking slightly puzzled. He sat down, arranging himself in a large comfortable chair. “I called your office. I learned that you were on leave – which is unusual enough – but nobody would say why. There was some hint that it was medically related. Nobody would say what the problem was; for all I knew, you’d been shot. So, I came here to find out how you were.”

Klaus poured two large glasses from a bottle of cognac on the sideboard, and handed one to Eroica. He sat down, facing the thief across a low table. “Is your curiosity satisfied, then?”

Eroica gave Klaus an arch smile. “Partly satisfied – I see there doesn’t seem to be any overt damage. Partly more curious than ever, though, because I half expected you to slam the door in my face. Instead, you invite me in and give me cognac.” Eroica took a sip. “Very good cognac, too, if I may say so.”

Klaus smiled faintly. It was true: in the past, he might have done exactly as Eroica had said. Strangely, today, he didn’t feel the need to. 

“So, tell me, Major – the mission. What happened after you gave me the keys to the truck and sent me away? After you said, ‘Fuck off and leave it to the professionals.’ You told me you were going to call your men to come and collect you and the paintings, and that they’d be there later that same day. Did Mischa and his ruffians turn up first?”

“You know about the KGB arriving, then.”

“Yes. But no details.” Eroica sat sipping his cognac, looking expectant.

Since he’d been home on leave, Klaus had imagined several different versions of this very conversation. Which version should he enact now? Should he tell Eroica the whole story, down to the very last detail? Or should he give a heavily edited version? 

To delay saying anything at all, he got up and strolled over to the sideboard. He picked up the cognac bottle and brought it back with him, setting it down on the low table between himself and his guest. He took another sip from his own glass and put it down beside the bottle. 

“I don’t know how much time passed between your leaving, and Mischa’s arrival. Perhaps not much, because I never made the call to my men. I don’t remember anything about what happened, because when Mischa and his thugs arrived, they gave me a hell of a beating.” Klaus paused. “I spent some days suffering from temporary amnesia. That’s why I’m on leave. Rest and recuperation.”

The thief’s eyes were wide. After a few moments he raised his glass to his lips, took another sip, and set the glass down on the table next to Klaus’s. 

Watching Eroica’s reactions, Klaus weighed up how much more he should say – then tossed a mental coin. _Speak now and that’s the end of the story. If you can keep quiet a while longer, I’ll tell you the rest. All of it._

He half hoped that the thief would speak, so the rest of the story didn’t have to be told – but he didn’t, so Klaus pressed on.

“When I regained consciousness after they’d beaten me up, I realised I had no idea who I was. No idea where I was, or why. They’d left me in that store-room with the paintings, and I could hear some of their conversation through the wall. They mentioned a name: Eroica.” He paused. “And I came to the conclusion they must have been talking about me. I concluded that I was Eroica.”

The thief’s eyes widened even further, but still he said nothing. 

“The Russians took away the collection and left me there, handcuffed and locked in. Mischa called Interpol. The bastard must have thought that up as a special joke, since I’d got the idea that I was an internationally-wanted art thief. They took all but two of the paintings – left them there so Interpol could see evidence of my latest theft. I spent nearly a week in custody, still believing I was Eroica, until something triggered a clear memory and I remembered who I was.” Klaus shrugged. “I persuaded the Prison Governor to call the Bonn office, and they sent someone to identify me and get me out.”

Eroica reached for his cognac and took three swallows without drawing breath.

“So, Eroica, that’s what happened after I sent you away. I lost the collection, and Mischa got a good story to tell when he got back home to Russia.”

“You thought you were me?”

“Yes.”

“And Interpol held you in custody?”

“Yes.” Klaus picked up his cognac and swirled it round in the glass, a rich amber vortex. “Well, Eroica? Curiosity satisfied now?”

“One more question, Major. Why _did_ NATO want me to steal a man’s entire art collection?”

Klaus looked steadily at Eroica for a few moments. “The official position is that you don’t need to know that.”

“So you said when we set out to rob the house. I did my part – without knowing why – and now the collection’s been taken by the Russians. Call me curious, but I want to know what’s so special about that collection as far as NATO and the KGB are concerned.”

 _H’mph._ Klaus reminded himself again that as a contractor, Eroica didn’t need to know, but— _Oh, fuck it._

“Our interest wasn’t in the collection itself. Tarek Nabiyev, the man who owned it, has family connections going back a couple of generations with a region within the Soviet Union where there’s an uprising going on. Some of the populace objects to being under Soviet rule. They’ve objected since they became part of the Soviet Union, but now they’re taking action. Small-scale skirmishes so far, but enough to ruffle feathers in the Kremlin. Rebellion isn’t taken lightly by the Russians.”

“What do the paintings have to do with that?”

“We received word that Nabiyev was brokering a deal with an arms supplier to secure better-grade weapons for the rebels. The deal was, the supplier’s representatives would go to his house, gain access with his prior assistance, and remove the collection. You said it yourself, Eroica – those paintings, in total, are worth several million. No doubt the arms supplier would turn them into cash over time.”

“Payment for an arms shipment? To aid rebels in the Soviet Union?”

“Yes.”

Eroica sat back in his chair, looking thoughtful. “Then, NATO’s motivation was to prevent the transaction from going through.”

“Correct.”

“Why would NATO care about an uprising in the Soviet Union? Surely such a thing is outside your area of interest?”

“If the man brokering the deal is living in West Germany, and the deal is to take place here, believe me— NATO’s interested.”

“But wouldn’t the KGB also want to stop the transaction? Wouldn’t they think you’d done them a good turn? Why did they want to steal the paintings from you?”

Klaus refreshed his own glass and Eroica’s. “It seems likely that Mischa and his men were sent to do exactly what we’d done: steal the paintings to stop the transaction. When they saw that we’d got there first, they stole the paintings from us so they could claim they’d completed their mission.”

“And what would the Russians do with the paintings once they arrived in Moscow?”

A shrug. “Put them into storage, I suppose. Material evidence.”

Eroica sipped his cognac. “Shame. Art shouldn’t be locked away; it should be enjoyed – by people who know how to enjoy it.” He held up his glass and studied it, then drawled nonchalantly, “You don’t know, perchance, where they would have taken the paintings?”

A dark glare stormed up in Klaus’s eyes. “No, I don’t. And listen, Eroica: don’t even _think_ about trying to steal those paintings back from the Russians. Just let it go. Do you hear me?”

“Why, Major!” An impish smile played around Eroica’s lips. “Nothing was further from my mind.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

Before anything more could be said on the matter, the door opened and Herr Hinkel came in carrying a tray piled with bread, cheese and fruit, and a pot of goose liver paté. Without a word, he placed it on the table and left the room. 

Klaus smiled briefly, shaking his head. “Herr Hinkel can’t bear to think I might miss a meal.” He lifted a small plate and a knife from the tray and passed them to Eroica. “Thinks I need a nursemaid. Does your butler fuss over your meals?”

“My butler doubles as a burglar, not a nanny.” Eroica bit into a slice of cheese. “You’re being very hospitable, Major. You haven’t shouted at me since I got here.”

Spreading paté on bread, Klaus flicked a glance at his guest. “No need. You haven’t done anything idiotic. Yet.”

They munched in silence for a while.

“Tell me, Major,” Eroica said at last; “when you thought you were me – did that trouble you? I mean, afterwards, when you knew who you really were.”

Klaus took his time chewing and swallowing, delaying his answer. He’d done a lot of thinking about that very question since he’d recovered his memory, and decided to answer honestly. 

“No. It didn’t trouble me. Not while I thought I was you; not afterward. It was a reasonable conclusion to reach, in the circumstances. The Russians were talking about someone called Eroica; there were the paintings. Seemed logical at the time. And, according to the doctor who did my medical debriefing, it's not unusual for someone with temporary amnesia to latch on to the identity of someone they know well.” 

“But did you— did you _think_ like me?”

“Like a bloody thief, you mean?”

“No, I mean—” Eroica broke off, and sighed. “Sorry. Forget it. I withdraw the question.”

Klaus cut another slice of cheese. “While I thought I was you, I started to recall things from that damned mission in Alaska. I remembered Mischa being threatened by someone with a gun that might or might not have been empty.” He didn’t look at Eroica as he said, “I thought the man holding Mischa at gunpoint must be Iron Klaus.”

He looked up to see Eroica staring wide-eyed again.

“You thought— You thought that _I_ was _you?_ ”

“Yes. And I remember thinking – I remember Eroica thinking – me thinking as Eroica – that he was exactly what Eroica would want in a man: brave, daring—” The next word stuck in Klaus’s throat. He couldn’t bring himself to say “beautiful”. 

“Oh, Major.” The thief looked lost for words.

“And, believe it or not, I understood what it must feel like to think that way about a man.” Klaus abandoned his food, stood up, and went over to look out of the window. Anything to remove the need to look Eroica in the face. 

When Eroica didn’t speak, Klaus turned back toward him.

“Explain this to me, Eroica. You act like an outrageous fop when there are other people present, but when we’re alone, you don’t. You didn’t flirt or carry on while we were stealing the collection from Nabiyev’s house, or while we were driving the truck to that shack where I was supposed to meet my men.”

“Did you _want_ me to, Major?”

“No, I bloody well didn’t. But why? Why the difference?”

Now it was Eroica’s turn to look uncomfortable, and it took him a long time to reply. 

“When we’re with other people, they take one look at me and expect me to carry on like that. It’s how they think homosexuals behave. Any of them with eyes in their heads can see I care for you, Major. And God knows, there are enough rumours about you and me – and I know how much you hate that.” He shrugged. “When I behave outrageously, it gives you an excuse to show them all that you’re not interested. It keeps your reputation intact.” Eroica rubbed his jaw. “I just wish that sometimes you were less emphatic about it.”

Klaus looked at him incredulously. “So, you’re saying—”

“I’m _saying,_ Major, that I don’t flirt outrageously when we’re alone because there’s no need to set up a distraction. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. Because I do. You know that.”

Before Klaus could think how to respond, the door opened again.

“Would you like me to bring coffee for you and your guest, Master Klaus?” Herr Hinkel inquired.

“No coffee, thank you!” Klaus snapped. “And leave the tray.”

As the door closed, Eroica said, “Poor Herr Hinkel, you didn’t have to bark at him like that.”

“Bloody interruptions! Fuck it, how can anyone hold a conversation in this place?” Out of habit, Klaus glared at Eroica, who merely looked amused.

 _No, stop this,_ Klaus thought. _It would be too easy to slip back into the usual pattern, him making smart remarks and me snarling at him._

“Where are you staying, Eroica? Are you going back to Bonn?”

“No, I’m staying in the village tonight. Why?”

“I’ve been thinking about taking a short trip on my motorcycle, just two or three days. You can ride a motorcycle, Eroica; why don’t you come with me? There’s a place in the village where you can hire one.”

“Why, Major.” A slow smile of surprise and pleasure spread across Eroica’s face. “I’d be delighted.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part two: Klaus's book of military history might have been 'Vom Kriege', a book on war and military strategy by Prussian general Carl von Clausewitz (1780–1831), written mostly after the Napoleonic wars, between 1816 and 1830, and published posthumously by his wife.

**Author's Note:**

> Klaus's recollections of Alaska refer, of course, to Aoike's story The Alaskan Front. The lines “I can tell you right now, things are going to get ugly. It’s no longer something a civilian should be involved in.” and “I merely want the art collection back. So what if my adversary is the KGB?” are borrowed from the CMX translations.


End file.
